At least once a week, I open my apartment door and find a rolled sheet of paper stuck into the door handle. Apartment managers leave them here without a peep - no knock, no footsteps, no muted scratches against the wood. I never know anyone was here until minutes or hours (who knows?) later. Each scroll announces grim news:
This notice is to advise you of recent criminal activity on the property. A resident reports an attempted unauthorized entry into their apartment. In addition, it has been reported that an attempted burglarly of the business office occurred ...Residents report a bicycle theft and vehicle burglarly ...
It has been reported that vandalism occurred in the South lobby elevator ...
I always knew: Theft and burglaries are common in downtown apartments and neighborhoods. Local newspapers and community newsletters remind us: this is the price we pay to live near bookstores, work, and interesting architecture.
But I wonder what these letters from apartment management actually accomplish. Warnings do little to solve the problem, and fear does not inspire a close-knit community. Residents size each other up in the hallways now, wondering whether unfamiliar faces belong inside the building, or if they slipped in uninvited, when a guest dialed the callbox or a resident used their security key.
I wonder how long before unfamiliar fingers poke a lockpick into my door, or smash through the flimsy security on our mailboxes, rifling through bills and letters for that all-important SSN.
Every time I unfurl one of the scrolls, I remember a night in 1995, when I lived above a pawn shop in Iowa City, Iowa. A fire escape doubling as my back staircase led directly to a small balcony outside my window. I never considered it dangerous, until one night, someone cut out the screen and tried to break in.
My boyfriend and I were asleep on my futon, directly below the locked window. Suddenly, I had the sense someone was watching us, and the nerves in my hands and feet singed hot. I heard footsteps on the fire escape, followed by scratching on the front door. I rolled over to peek below the door. When I saw two sneaker toes pressed almost beneath the crack and heard the knob jiggle, I shook my boyfriend awake, whispering shhhhh and pressing my palm lightly to his lips. He didn't believe me at first. I was known for carrying on complex conversations while asleep, not to mention bizarre bouts of sleepwalking. But then the knob jiggled louder. Someone was trying to break in.
We crept out of bed, grabbed the telephone, and tip-toed into the bathroom, where I dialed 911. 911, however, refused to send help. They said I should ask who it is. It might be a friend, the dispatcher said.
Do friends pick locks? I whispered.
The dispatcher said there was nothing police could do until a crime had already been committed.
Never mind the serial rapist reported on the news: a man who broke in while women slept and raped them in their own beds.
My boyfriend grabbed a hammer and prepared our defense. Who's there? He screamed.
And the intruder ran away.
The next morning, we found my screen cut out, left like a note on the balcony. The intruder had probably intended to climb in the window, but was thwarted by the lock (a surprise on a hot summer night - usually Iowans leave windows open in summer, untroubled by crime.)
I never slept in that apartment again.